Shadows And Nightmares
by ShadowOfHapiness
Summary: Getting back from the Underworld was, surprisingly enough, the easy part. It's when it's just the two of them and the constant sound of the rain's pitter-patter outside that the extent of what they've been through truly sinks into Emma. They may be cracked and scarred, but at least, they're damaged together.


**Not too sure what this is, but I guess I've been feeling a little bad for Emma since watching Season 5. While I understand why it was never expanded upon, because in _Once,_ most of the time the plot takes precedence over the characters' feelings, it bugged me how Emma (and Killian) were expected to just get over the whole 'Darkness+Underworld torture' trauma they went through as soon as they got back to Storybrooke (like, Emma literally waved away all of Killian's injuries when I'd been crossing my fingers for some massive time alone for them to begin healing there). **

**Emma was a Dark One for what? Eight weeks was it? And Killian also turned into one soon after only to end up killed and brutally tortured in the Underworld by who knows what, which, in my opinion, counts as a pretty traumatizing experience for both of them. I'm pretty sure that's not something easy to get over, so I thought I'd try to see what it could be like to write instead. Because _Once_ and continuity/logic aren't always best friends :) **

* * *

It's raining outside.

The sound feels so incredibly loud in her ears, and Emma isn't sure whether it's because she's overtired and feels a headache coming on or because it actually _is_ loud. She doesn't really care, the fact is, it's the only thing she can hear, and as she focuses on the tiny clear droplets slowly sliding down her window, the ones the moon shines through and lets her see, she keeps her eyes trained on them as they make their way down uninterrupted. Sometimes, she wishes the course her life to be just as uneventful.

It's been raining for the past few nights, and it's become a habit of hers to grab one of her small soft blankets (the white one, the one with her name sewn in on the corner) and sit on the windowsill of her bedroom, curled up against the wall and eyes locking on the outside, trying to find something they might be able to find to keep her attention during those dreaded dark hours. In a way, the constant rain is almost a reassurance, something she takes comfort in, because it's there every night, it's there to soothe her soul and take her mind off the things she would rather not dwell on right now (a part of her knows she's just pushing back the inevitable, that she's going to have to deal with it at some point, but just 'not tonight'). Besides, the droplets are so small, so clear and so pure, they call to her, a small light she can call her own after so long entrapped in nothing but darkness and pain. It's a little treasure she can call her own and not have to share with anyone after giving so much of herself for the people of Storybrooke. Nobody but her would ever get to see how valuable it was to her.

The rain is incredibly blearing, thankfully, and it distracts her from thinking too much about what the past few weeks have entailed for her _–isolation, loneliness, death, Hell, heartache-_ all that is behind her now, and yet, as she looks outside, one hand grazing the cold glass of the window, the cold seeping into her unfeeling bones, she can't find it in herself to feel happy, proud or even relieved. With a sag in her shoulders, Emma realizes that just feels… Empty.

She had hoped –oh she had hoped so badly, had thought that for once, following in her parents' footsteps and allowing herself to ignite that small little flame would be for the best- that now that they had all made it back to Storybrooke in one piece, that everything would return back to how it was, that they would be okay and that they would finally be able to get their lives back on track: her parents and Henry were safe and sound, Regina's fears for Robin's safety were now put at bay as the couple had begun to see to their daughter and most importantly for her (or what _should_ have been the most important, at an rate), she had succeeded in bringing Killian back to her, back home, where he belonged. It had taken quite a bit of convincing –not that she didn't understand where he was coming from, she knew all too well what it felt like, to feel unworthy of someone else's affections- but with Liam's help and a bit of encouragement, he had come around to the fact that he indeed could come back, that a Savior like her could also salvage a soul like his. Emma had been so relieved when he'd told her –quietly, but with a passion to it which let her know that he truly believed in what he said- that she hadn't even thought of any of the consequences their return might entail. She'd been too happy at the fact that she wasn't about to lose him like she had said farewell to too many already to even consider that the past few weeks would have ugly consequences.

Of course, once they had made it back, the world was quick to show her that not everything happened like in Henry's elaborate fairytale book. That, maybe she _had_ rescued her True Love, and maybe they _were_ about to have a chance at truly being together now (and they damn well intended to make that 'together' last for a long, long time) but if her life in Storybrooke so far had ever taught her anything, it was that Happy Endings were more often than not marred with a little bit of grey.

It wasn't much, nothing she really thought she ought to worry herself about, at the beginning anyway. But the initial thrill she and Killian had felt at sharing a future once again had been slightly marred as soon as they had made it back to the front porch of that white house they had bought -the one _he_ had chosen- unbidden memories of a much too recent and painful past resurfacing as soon as their eyes caught the gleam of the golden door handle. Neither had dared whisper a word, not wanting to dull what had been supposed to be a symbol of renewal and a new beginning, but Emma had noticed the way his shoulders had sagged and how his eyes had locked with the ground at their feet for a moment, shame and guilt over what he had done and said under the influence of the Darkness weighing him down. Emma had tried to make him understand that the past was in the past, that it was behind them now and that this was their chance to move forward, together, but being the stubborn man that he was, Killian had remained unconvinced. And so had she, when she followed him in.

She shivers as a gust of wind howls outside, and Emma can swear it's almost as if she can feel it creeping up her spine, long invisible tendrils wrapping around her, sucking out any hint of warmth she might still be harboring, and it's like being the Dark One all over again, with the encompassing feeling of loneliness suffocating her as she tugs the small blanket even tighter around her shoulders. Unfortunately, it does little to help.

Emma knows she's not alone anymore, deep down she knows she has a family and friends she can rely on, people who care for her and who want her happy, but jagged memories still overlay the perfect image, making her firm belief in the fact waver ever so slightly, a single chip damaging the carefully built armor. David and Mary Margaret had hurt her (they were human, they made mistakes, it was to be expected), and they had tried to make it up to her, but it didn't change the fact that what they had done to her had deeply affected her. And it's now that she has a moment to breathe that Emma comes to terms that they aren't the only ones to have done so: Henry, Regina, Killian himself and many other individuals she's had the opportunity to encounter during her twenty eight years have also left their share of painful memories scarred into her brain, memories she sometimes wishes she could just erase but knows she cannot. Living with ones' hurts is also a hard lesson she's learnt. Emma knew her parents would never set out to willingly hurt her (not when they were still trying to make up for the years they had missed out on being a family), but their misunderstandings in Camelot, how she had felt left out and completely alone while they helped others like Arthur, Lancelot and Regina, those were still feelings that made her chest ache in the early hours of the morning. And what she had done to them as a Dark One –stealing their memories, pushing them away, turning her back on them- they were things she had done that would never go away. They were now a past that she would have to live with –had to live with right now- until the end of her days. Emma knows of the saying that it does nobody any good to dwell on regrets, but as she looks back and sees how better things could have been had she just accepted their help or sought them out of her own accord she can't help but wish she had taken another path.

And the clear image she can see of herself rejecting them and their want to help burns in her chest as guilt coils around her, clutching her in a vice-like grip. They may have forgiven her (if there was one thing David and Mary-Margaret were extremely good at, it was undoubtedly forgiveness), but forgiving herself was something she was finding to be a much harder goal to achieve. And as she replays her mistakes and wrongdoings in her head over and over as she clutches the small blanket like an anchor, she now understands why Killian was having such a hard time doing it for himself, because for her, it's much easier to forgive others for their transgressions than herself, because the terrible deeds she's done still haunt _her_.

Excluding the faint glow the moon emits, filtering through the rain drops and casting an eerie glimmer throughout her room, Emma sees nothing but darkness. Being familiar with it and it's treacherous ways, she can feel it creep up her legs, hugging her tightly in it's nightmarish arms and she wants to do what she does best _–run._ Before Storybrooke, it's what she's always done, it's what she's always known, and sometimes, it's hard to shake off an instinct you build on years of solitude and pain. Her dim room, the one she had hoped would come to mean safety now that she had finally accepted to have Killian move in with her (and he was but a few feet away, under the covers of their shared double bed, his face to her and the faint moonlight making the still-healing wounds on his face stand out) felt more like a prison than a comfort, in those early hours when it was just her and the shadows of the night, and seeing them dance upon the wall –taunting her, reminding her what it felt like to be scared- made Emma long for a company she knew she could not have, for she dared not wake anybody at this hour for such a triviality.

Tightening her grip on the blanket, nails now almost digging into her arm, Emma watches the wall as she leans against the window, the cold glass anchoring her here, in her room (in something _real_ ) as she watches the shadows dance, dark figures against the grey paint, and it's like being in Hell all over again.

Emma can hear them, the bone-chilling screams from the lost souls trapped for eternity in the river Lethe, she can see their deformed hands and mutilated faces looking back at her, a glimmer of accusations in their eyes at the fact that she had not saved _them_. That instead of saving and restoring hope, she had let herself succumb to the darkness and chosen to almost become one of them instead.

The thought sends a tremor of fear run down the length of her spine, still pressed up against the cold window. Only it's not an anchor to reality anymore, it feels like Death itself clawing at her back, trying to drag her back to the very place she'd escaped form only days before. Emma doesn't want to go back –and if she thinks really hard, she knows she's not _ever_ going to go back there because this _isn't_ real- but the shadows grow, they call to her, to come join the previous Dark One sin their circle of never-ending torment, and the outstretched hand Emma swears she can see makes her want to reel back even more than she already has, the hardness against her back now a freezing numbness that has started spreading.

The rain seems even louder now that Emma has her head leant against the window, and the rising anxiety she feels at losing control, the growing fear she feels at not being able to discern what is really there from what her mind is conjuring up makes her breath come in pants and panic mount in her chest, and the only way Emma has to make everything just stop is to shut her eyes tightly, and think of something she wants to see. (Maybe it's Henry, maybe it's just a shared dinner at Granny's, she's not too sure given that everything is a bit of a blur, but it helps, and gradually, she can feel her heartbeat settle down as the resuming sound of the rain outside (uninterrupted, unaffected by all this, unlike she was)helps her calm down and push out the frightening noise she had previously manage to conjure up.

The room returns to the calm and peaceful thing it was, and Emma almost feels like everything is back to normal again as she loosens her grip on her white blanket slightly when her she hears the distinct sound of a whimper coming from the bed.

She doesn't have time to dwell on what exactly it is, because no sooner has she registered it that he shoots up from the bed, one hand clutching his forehead as he looks around the room, panting. There might not be much light, but Emma sees the wide-eyes expression, the exposed fear and the way his hand grips his opposing forearm hard. Looking at him like that, she doesn't have to think very hard to come up with a reason behind his inability to sleep either –the gruesome sight he was when she had found him was enough for her to understand what he'd been put through and him to have adequate material for nightmares for the rest of his life.

When their eyes lock, they look at each other silently, as if both are searching for something they can not find in the other, and it's Emma who breaks first, easing herself off the windowsill and coming back to the bed. Sitting on the comfier material once she reaches the edge, it's slightly warmer than the wood she'd been on previously. However, it does little to comfort her when she realizes that both of them are hanging back, as she still has her arms wrapped together and she can swear Killian almost retreats an inch –to give her space or because of something else, she isn't quite sure which.

"Can't sleep either?" Emma doesn't want to ask the _are you okay?_ Question because she knows it's stupid (as if either of them could be okay after being acquaintance to terror that was Darkness and, in Killian's case at least, a vivid experience of what extents of torment the Underworld could inflict on a soul).

"Guess not." He says quietly, shrugging as if it were just a mild inconvenience. Deflection. He is pretty good at that, Emma has to say, but Emma knows when people were lying (a lifetime of abandonment and empty promises unfortunately developing such a skill) and knows better the instant the words escape his mouth. If she is able to be honest enough with herself to admit that she is not okay, then she strongly doubts that he is either. And for a moment, she feels anger towards him, anger that he feels the need to still hide how he feels from her for fear of how she might react. It lasts only one fleeting moment though, for while Emma understands why Killian is opting to close himself off rather than be his talkative self, it doesn't mean that it pains her ay less to feel excluded.

However, if there is one thing Killian has always been to her, it's honest. And instead of pushing for answers, doubting quite strongly it would do either of them any good to dwell on past hurts right now, Emma opts to let it go for now, trusting that if ever Killian feels the need to talk about what had happened, to at least have somebody sharing the knowledge of what he'd been put though, he would tell her in his own time. And when he did decide to tell her, Emma would be there.

Instead of trying to find the right words to say to him (being someone who had firsthand seen how words often were naught but prettily coated lies, aiming to minimize her pain and dismiss her hurts), Emma brings a cold hand to the top of his shoulder –cold too, and shaking still.

She opens her mouth, about to tell him that he could talk, that she would understand (they had both been Dark Ones, they had both experienced the fear of what it was like to not be in control of your body when summoned by the cursed dagger, they had both known what it was like to have an incessant voice push them to commit the deepest and darkest of deeds, they had both caused much harm and seen for themselves the pain they had caused), but the problem is, it not as simple as that.

While Emma still harbors a certain amount of fear towards the darkness for the potential harm it could still influence her to do, when the hand she brings up to Killian's back brushes over the raised healing flesh there, she realizes that this wasn't the same. Not exactly. They both had demons to deal with, demons that wait to prance upon them as soon as they close their eyes (and Emma is pretty certain they were both not going to be sleeping any more tonight), but where Emma's nights are filled with the poisonous voice whispering lies and twisted things into her ear, making her feel cold, alone and isolated, she doubts quite strongly that that was what Killian is revisiting, when he leans into her a little more as her hand hovers above his back, not too sure whether the touch would be welcomed or not.

Upon his rescue, Emma's first cue had been to use her magic to erase what had happened, to make the lines, welts and scars adorning his back fade into nothing and spare him a whole lot of healing, but Killian had refused and she had come to realize that while Elsa's support had helped her gain a great amount of skill when it came to her magic, magic was what had caused them so much trouble to begin with, and was probably not the best way for them to go about healing. She had taken a small amount of comfort in the fact that Killian had not only accepted but _asked_ for her help when it came to dealing the wounds he had sustained, and the task had been long, grueling, but at long last, everything had been covered up.

Now however, as her fingers graze another chunk of raised flesh on his back, Emma actually sees for herself that Killian has his own set of hurts to halt his sleep at night –only his were physical, whereas hers were all in her head. Feeling a healing scab with the tip of her fingers, she burns with the desire to ask him "Are you okay?" or "Do you need anything?" but it all seems so futile when she feels his head drop onto her shoulder, and the sudden proximity they share makes Emma feel _warm._

And despite the pitiful sight they probably make, Emma actually likes it.

She liked it because they understand each other, they don't need to talk, don't need to say anything to know that the only thing they do need is just that: _each other_ , and when she feels his fingers grasping her nightshirt just that little bit tighter, Emma smiles into his shoulder. The bubbling warmth she feels in her chest at being needed, no scratch that, _wanted_ almost makes it okay (except that it isn't, because Emma knows they'll never truly be completely okay again). As she hold him, she can almost picture it, how his shattered pieces fit into her broken ones, the two of them creating a semblance of something whole. Maybe it's not the prettiest, maybe it's not smooth and shining like any other relationship she knows of, but for Emma, it's enough.

And when she feels his body go limp in her arms, an occasional tremor still running down it's length (because maybe Killian was seeing Archie, maybe he was getting help, but Emma doubts that any amount of professional help ever erases memories of torture), Emma leans back down on the bed with him this time. The lines on his face disappear (for a while, but Emma knows they will come back, like they return to her every night when she reminisces over her actions as a Dark One), and her heart feels slightly lighter knowing that for now, they're okay.

The scars they both have, whether in the mind (in her case) or marring the body (in Killian's case), might not ever go away, but as long as they have each other, Emma is pretty confident that they will be able to move on. It might take time, and the world might not always wait for them to catch up to it, but if there is one thing Emma has come to know about herself, it's that she's a savior. And she damn well intends to save them both so they might finally have a shot at that future they'd been talking about.


End file.
